Ice Hunt

With the boat untethered, Amanda tossed the ax inside, then shoved from the prow. “Back her out ten feet, then I’ll let out the sails.”

They all pushed, but it was damn heavy. It refused to budge. They would never get it out in time.

“C’mon,” Craig mumbled on the starboard side.

Then suddenly the boat broke free. It wasn’t heavy. The runners had just been ice-locked in place. They quickly hauled the boat clear of the shelter and out into the stronger winds.

“Everyone aboard, up near the front!” Amanda yelled as she ran around to the stern end. “One person on each side for balance.”

Jenny and Craig clambered aboard.

From the stern, Amanda unhitched the sail with the speed of experience. In moments, sailcloth caught the stiff winds, unfurled, and snapped to the ends of their ties.

The boat immediately sped straight backward, pushing away from the pressure ridges, shoved by the winds blowing down from above.

As they skated in reverse, Jenny spotted the two hover-cycles beyond the boat’s prow. They were circling toward the Sno-Cat. She spotted two riders on each vehicle.

Unfortunately the Russians spotted them, too.

The cycles turned toward them.

“Damn it!” Craig swore on the other side.

The passengers on the cycles fired at them, peppering the ice in front and around the boat. A couple rounds punched through the sail but did little damage.

Amanda called from the stern. “Lie flat! Keep your heads down!”

Jenny was already doing that, but Craig pressed lower.

Overhead the sail’s boom sprang around, whipping at a speed that would crack a skull. The boat soon followed suit. The craft spun on the ice, lifting up on one runner.

Jenny held her breath, sure they would topple, but then the boat jarred back to the ice. The sails popped like a sonic boom—and they were off.

Winds tore past them.

Jenny risked a peek up and backward. With the boat turned around properly, they raced away from the cycles, their speed escalating. Past Amanda, Jenny watched the two hover-bikes begin to fade back. In this gale, they were no match for the racing boat.

Jenny allowed a bit of hope to warm inside her.

Then she spotted a flash of fire from either side of the lead cycle.

Minirockets!

5:22 P.M.

Matt ran across the ice, staying low, as bullets pelted and ricocheted around him. Anger fueled him as he dodged around overturned vehicles and wreckage, seeking whatever shelter he could, but the line of Russian soldiers moved determinedly behind him.

Ahead, the blasted pit in the center of the parking lot blocked his path. He would have to circle around it, losing time, but at least the foggy steam rising from the ragged hole was thicker around its edges.

He headed toward the windward side, aiming for where the mists were the most dense. But where could he go after that? He couldn’t hide forever in the fog. He had to lose the Russians, get them off his tail.

Movement drew his eye out to the open ice fields. He saw a billow of blue blowing across the ice—an ice racer. It was chased by two hovercraft. Then a large explosion erupted near the boat, casting up ice and fluming water high. A last-moment jag by the boat was all that saved it, but ice rattled down atop it. The bikes closed in on the foundering boat.

Closer, a bullet cracked into the ice by Matt’s heel. He danced away, turning his attention to his own predicament. More bullets blasted at him. But as he turned his attention from the ice racer, another sight caught his eye.

Maybe…

He tried to judge the distance, then thought, Fuck it. He preferred to die trying to save himself rather than simply being shot in the head by the Russians.

Matt changed course. He sprinted directly toward the rocket impact, aiming for the steaming hole. He remained in plain sight, letting the Russians clearly see him. Bullets chased after him, striking closer now.

Reaching the hole, Matt dove over the edge, arms wide.

Below, chunks of ice floated at the bottom of the blast hole. He wrested his body around to avoid knocking himself out on a chunk, then plunged into the frigid waters.

The cold cut through him immediately, closing like a vise grip, burning rather than freezing. He fought his body’s attempt to curl fetally against the affront. His lungs screamed to gasp and choke.

It was death to give in to these reflexes.

Instead, he clamped his chest tight and forced his legs to kick, his arms to pull himself down under the edge of the ice shelf. Exertion helped—as did the triple-layer Gore-Tex parka. He swam out into the dark ocean.

The waters were as black as ink, but he focused toward the target he had glimpsed from the surface. Sixty yards away, murky storm light beamed down into the ocean depths.

It was the man-made lake through which the Russian submarine had surfaced earlier. Matt swam toward it, keeping just under the plane of ice. He kicked against the cold, against the weight of his clothes. He had to make it.

The Russians would believe him dead after his suicidal plunge. They would give up the chase. When able, he would climb free of the polynya and strike out for some ice cave in the peaks. In an inside pocket of his stolen parka were a pack of Russian cigarettes and a lighter. He would find some way to start a fire, keep warm until the Russians left.

It was not the best plan…in fact, it had too many faults even to list.

But it was better than being shot in the back.

Matt struggled toward the light. Just a little farther…

But the shaft of lifesaving light did not seem to be getting any closer. He thrashed and crawled through the waters, kicking against the occasional ice ridge overhead to speed him toward the open water.

His lungs ached, and pinpricks of light swirled across his vision. His limbs quaked from the cold.

Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all…

Matt refused to let panic set in. He had been through all manner of training in the Green Berets, in all terrain. He simply continued to kick with his legs and draw with his arms. As long as his heart still pumped, he was alive.

But a deeper terror arose in his heart.

Tyler died this way…drowning under ice.

He shoved this thought aside and continued his determined crawl toward the light. But the fear and guilt persisted.

Like father, like son.

A small stream of bubbles escaped his lips as his lungs spasmed. The shaft of light grew dimmer.

Maybe I deserve it…I failed Tyler.

But a part of him refused to believe it. His legs continued to thrash. He clawed toward the light. It seemed closer now. For an endless time, he fought toward his salvation—both now and in the past. He would not die. He would not let guilt kill him, not any longer, not like it had been doing to him slowly over the past three years.